


heart of the matter

by spiraldistortion (bisexualthorin)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Emotional Manipulation, Fisting, Gore, I mean... there is a fist in a hole, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Painplay, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, woundfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28337661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion
Summary: “Anything you’ve ever wanted to do—anything that worried or frightened you just as much as it excited you—do it to me now.” Jonah slides his hand up to Jonathan’s bicep and draws him in closer, making him bend at the waist to keep his balance, now nearly eye-level with Jonah.Jonah reaches up to touch Jonathan’s lips, smearing his blood over them and pressing at the seam until Jonathan acquiesces, taking his bloodied fingers into his mouth with a broken moan. When he slides them out from between his lips, Jonathan makes an aborted movement to follow, but Jonah stops him with a gentle hand to his jaw. He keeps his eyes on Jonathan’s mouth, lips red and wet and shining, close enough now that he can feel Jonathan’s breath ghosting over his chin.“I’m yours.”
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Kudos: 24
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	heart of the matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Autodidact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/gifts).



> This Christmas, I am bringing you good cheer and lots of Jonah Magnus bleeding everywhere. Blood can be festive, right? I mean, red _is_ a Christmas color. Written as a Secret Santa gift for Leto, who is wonderful and thankfully just as fucked up as I am.
> 
> The words cock, cunt, and chest are used to refer to transmasc anatomy.

“I received your letter.”

Straight to the point is Jonathan Fanshawe, never one to mince his words. He stands in the entryway of Jonah’s townhome, prim and proper and put-together, eyes settled on a point just to the left of Jonah’s ear. Jonah regards him from around the open door, holding him there in terse silence for just a moment past the point of comfort before he speaks.

“Dr. Fanshawe,” Jonah inclines his head politely, stepping back to let the man in. “No ‘good afternoon,’ then? My, but where _are_ your manners?”

Jonathan shoots him a sidelong look as he passes, mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’ll forgive me,” he says as he sweeps his hat from his head, “if I decline a lesson on manners from a man who answered the door in his dressing gown.”

“I daresay I won’t.” Jonah leans back against the closed door, watching as Jonathan begins to remove his gloves. He has such fine hands, Jonah thinks. Elegant, with long, clever fingers that would look just as at home on the keys of a pianoforte as they do slotted between the ribs of a cadaver under his study. “Not the least because you don’t sound remotely sorry for it.”

“And I suppose you’d have me on my knees groveling for so small a slight?”

“Naturally,” Jonah says, and his grin is sharper than it is indulgent. Pushing off from the door with his shoulders, he walks over to Jonathan and lays a hand on his forearm, fingers curling around it and squeezing briefly. “Come,” he says, looking up into Jonathan’s face. “My study will be a more suitable place for us to speak.”

His bare feet are whisper-quiet as he leads Jonathan down the hall, the swish of his robe about his legs only the barest susurration. Jonathan, by comparison, is loud; his boots scuff against the floor now and again, as if he were unsure on his feet, though he has walked this hallway many times before. Had Jonah’s letter unsettled him so thoroughly? The thought tickles him. In what other ways would he take Dr. Fanshawe by surprise this evening? Jonah pushes the door to his study open and walks in ahead of him.

The quiet stillness of the house deepens inside his study. Heavy curtains are drawn over the windows, blotting out the light of the setting sun, muffling the noises from outside. Only the banked fire behind the grate fends off the darkness, and Jonah sets about lighting a few oil lamps to illuminate the room.

“I must confess,” Jonathan begins from the open doorway. “I found your note rather enigmatic, even for you.” There’s something like trepidation in his voice, a slight tremor that belies the confident manner in which he tries to speak. Jonah purses his lips against a smile.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Jonathan presses. He moves no further into the room, merely watches from just past the doorway as Jonah arranges the lamps around his desk, now cleared and covered in a white linen sheet. “You had advised me that my presence was quite urgently required. I believe you mentioned some ‘changes’?”

“Mm, yes,” Jonah says, but offers nothing further. Let Jonathan wait for answers. Let him work himself up just a bit more. It’ll be all the more enjoyable that way, at least where Jonah is concerned.

“Well?” Impatience creeps into Jonathan’s tone, and when Jonah looks back at him, his face is twisted into a frown. “I should like to know exactly _what_ you found so urgent and consuming that you felt justified in demanding that I clear my schedule and attend to you right away.”

“Requested,” Jonah sighs, finally turning to face him. “I _requested_ that you attend to me, at your earliest convenience. You needn’t have accepted if it caused you undue hardship.”

He says it not because he _means_ it—because he doesn’t, really. While he would have accepted Jonathan’s refusal with all the grace he could muster, he wouldn’t have been pleased about it. No, he says it because he likes to remind Jonathan of his choices—that Jonathan _chose_ to come to him, entirely of his own volition.

“That’s besides the point,” Jonathan insists, but he sounds rather chastened all the same.

“And what _is_ the point?”

Jonah folds his arms over his chest and waits. The question seems to take Jonathan aback, as though he didn’t expect Jonah to address him frankly. Fair enough, Jonah thinks as he watches Jonathan chew over his words. He _has_ rather given him the run around

“What am I doing here?” Jonathan asks at length. When he meets Jonah’s eye, his face is uncharacteristically open. While Jonah has never known him to be dishonest, he often shutters himself to others, closing himself off out of habit rather than by conscious effort. It makes him look younger than his years—not quite naïve, but not quite so worn down by experience and circumstance.

Without breaking eye contact, Jonah lets the robe fall from his shoulders, smooth silk slipping down his arms and the gentle curves of his body to pool on the floor at his feet. The air is cool against his skin, and he shivers as gooseflesh rises along his arms, as his nipples tighten into stiff peaks. Jonathan watches intently, eyes moving down Jonah’s body to take in every bit of skin revealed to him: the hollow of his throat, the nip of his waist, the turn of his calves. Smiling, Jonah moves to lift himself onto the desk, practiced and graceful, twisting in one fluid motion to bring his legs up as well.

“You’re going to hurt me,” he says simply. Not forceful, not a command. He says it as though it’s a certainty—as though he expects nothing less than Jonathan’s full compliance. Accustomed to getting his own way, and absolutely sure in his methods of doing so. He lays back onto the desk, stretching out sinuously and running a hand up the length of his thigh as his legs fall slightly open. He doesn’t miss the way Jonathan’s eyes flick immediately down between them.

“It seems we may have very different ideas of what it means to hurt someone.”

Jonathan’s voice is measured, careful. A tone that brooks no arguments. His expression is neutral, if a bit severe: stern about the brow, the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly downward. By anyone else’s assessment, a man unamused and unaffected.

But Jonah isn’t just anyone, and he looks closer when others wouldn’t dare. Jonathan’s eyes give him away. They shine with a banked excitement that might have given Jonah pause were he not so keen on seeing what it was that Jonathan tries so hard to hide.

A man of Jonathan’s background would presumably be indifferent to violence or the sight of blood, jaded by years spent first as an assistant surgeon during the Great French War and then as a physician in London. That is, of course, unless he were given to such urges himself. And truly, would a man choose, time and again, to work so closely with those in pain if he did not like the look of it on their faces, the sound of it in their cries?

“No,” Jonah says slowly, appraisingly. “I don’t think that we do.”

Jonathan makes no response, but he watches Jonah warily now, like a man waiting to hear unfortunate news. Probably doesn’t much like being on the other side of such a feeling, preferring instead to dole it out. There’s tension coiled in his shoulders and jaw; he holds his hands in tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides and doesn’t say a word.

Jonah sighs and props himself up with one hand to better look Jonathan in the eye.

“You brought your kit with you, I hope?”

Jonah aims for mollifying—that careful balance between reassurance and condescension that has yet to fail at drawing Jonathan out from his anxiety and back into more comfortable anger. As expected, Jonathan’s face pinches in annoyance and he scowls down at Jonah.

“Yes, but—”

“And in it you have something sharp? Perhaps a lancet or some other blade?”

“ _Yes_ , but—”

“Cut me.”

Jonathan snaps his mouth shut, waits a beat, opens it again.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Was I not clear the first time? _Cut m_ —”

“I heard what you said,” Jonathan says, raising his voice over Jonah’s. He exhales sharply and shakes his head. “And _why_ would I do such a thing?”

Jonah laughs once, derisive. “And here I thought you might _like_ the permission, never mind the excuse.” At Jonathan’s affronted look, Jonah scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Please, spare me your outrage. As if I haven’t seen the way you’ve looked at me—”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“You _want_ to, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”

“Don’t be _absurd_ —”

“Jonathan,” Jonah says sharply. “I don’t need you to accept your more _barbarous_ impulses—I only need you to embrace them for the time being and _hurt me_.”

Another pause, longer this time. Jonathan’s eyes flit about the room, and he looks like he has more than half a mind to run. Jonah knows better than to try to convince him otherwise. So, he waits. Waits and watches as Jonathan rocks slightly forward onto the balls of his feet and back, as he works out some of his anxiety with the rhythmic clench and unclench of his fists.

“Why?”

Jonah barely manages to keep his voice even when he replies. “I’ve just _said_ —”

“No, I don’t—” Jonathan cuts himself off, pinches at the bridge of his nose. Breathes in, breathes out. He removes his hand from his face, gesturing vaguely as he speaks. “I’m not asking why I should, I’m asking why you want me to. What are these ‘changes’ and what do you think me-me _cutting_ you will prove?”

Jonah gives him a considering look. Jonathan is clearly trying to maintain his composure, but he looks rattled, a bit wild around the eyes. Jonah knows that he had long ago trained himself out of gesticulating when he spoke, hating the looks it had drawn when he aimed to blend in wherever he could. For him to have fallen back into it now… Jonah may have pushed him a bit harder than he had intended to.

Taking a deep breath, Jonah steadies himself and tries a new tactic.

“How long does it take a wound to heal?”

“What?”

“A wound, Jonathan,” Jonah says, raising his eyebrows. “Something shallow but enough to _hurt_. How long does it take for something like that to heal?”

“Well, that would depend—”

“Approximately, then.”

Jonathan shoots Jonah an annoyed look. Back to haughty superiority, then. Fine. Whatever allows him to work past this truly frustrating show of indignation and restraint.

“A wound of that sort should clot within a few minutes.” His voice now is reminiscent of every tiresome tutor Jonah has ever had to suffer, and he grits his teeth against his rising irritation. “Unless there are any confounding factors, such as infection, it should be nothing more than a scar within a fortnight or so.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, if you knew the answer already, why did you bother to ask me about it?”

Jonathan sounds peevish now, but his hands have gradually relaxed at his sides. Back on more familiar footing. After all, he and Jonah argue more often than not. It’s one of the many reasons Jonah keeps him so close. Another such reason would hopefully soon come to fruition.

“To make sure it’s at the forefront of your mind,” Jonah says. “Now, let me show you. Cut me.”

Jonathan stares him down, as if he thinks he could convince him that this is a terrible idea by look alone. Perhaps it would be, under different circumstances, with different parties involved. An exercise in needless risk and potentially lasting harm. There are no such qualms here—nothing, Jonah suspects, that Jonathan could do that would leave him more than very briefly incapacitated.

Finally, Jonathan shakes his head and turns to fetch his bag from where he’d left it by the door. Jonah settles back more comfortably onto his elbows, watching the fabric of Jonathan’s coat pull across his shoulders as he rummages around in his bag.

“You might want to remove your coat,” he says loftily. “Unless you had the foresight to bring an apron…?”

Jonathan grumbles but pauses in his search to slide his coat down and off his arms all the same. Rolls up his sleeves for good measure, too, and Jonah is treated to the sight of the tendons in his forearms flexing as he works. When Jonathan straightens back up, he has a small leather parcel in his hand. Jonah eyes it with interest as Jonathan crosses the room to settle at his side.

“This is foolish,” Jonathan says, rather sourly for someone whose hands shake with obvious excitement. He fumbles with the clasp, nudging the kit open to reveal gleaming metal instruments. Always meticulous about the state of his possessions, keeping them neat and clean where many wouldn’t bother. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Jonathan looks up from his kit at that, thoroughly unamused. “Maybe I’ll stop.”

“Mm, maybe,” Jonah muses. “Or maybe you won’t. Because to do so would be to back down from a challenge, wouldn’t it? And we both know your pride couldn’t bear that.”

Jonathan holds his eye for a long moment, gaze sharp, just a bit dangerous. And then he blinks, dropping his eyes back to the kit before him, jaw working in anger. His fingers tremble as he runs them consideringly over his tools, a detail that Jonah doesn’t miss.

“Tell me, are your hands normally this unsteady during your surgeries? Or am I a special case?”

“Nothing about any of this is _normal_ , Jonah,” Jonathan bites out. He finally settles on his instrument of choice, a thin but deadly sharp scalpel with a finely carved wooden grip. “Excuse me if I’m not perfectly composed.”

“I’d be more inclined to do so if you’d get on with it already.

“And I’d be more inclined to ‘get on with it already’ if you stopped trying to provoke me.”

Point well taken. Jonah bites his tongue against a response and merely raises his eyebrows at Jonathan. Exhaling sharply through his nose, Jonathan closes his eyes, brows drawn together in annoyance as he breathes and tries to steady himself. Now that he’s looking, Jonah can see the bruised skin under his eyes, the product of working himself to near exhaustion. He doesn’t regret goading Jonathan on, not in the slightest. But he resolves to be a touch softer about it, at least for now.

After a long moment, Jonathan opens his eyes again. There’s a determined set to his shoulders now, his hands much steadier when he reaches out to rest one against Jonah’s collarbone. His fingers are pleasantly cool where they touch Jonah’s skin, trailing down over the swell of his chest, the softness of his stomach, the curve of his hip. They come to rest on his leg, calloused thumb running over the smooth, sensitive skin of Jonah’s inner thigh, just high enough to have Jonah clenching down in anticipation.

“Here?”

Jonathan’s voice is pitched low now, hushed and a bit rough. He’s still unconvinced, Jonah knows, but soon he’ll see. Soon, he’ll understand why Jonah has asked him here, and exactly what it is that Jonah is asking him to do.

“Wherever you’d like, Doctor,” he says demurely, looking up at Jonathan from under pale lashes. “I am utterly at your mercy.”

Jonathan grumbles a bit at that, cheeks darkening with the flush that sweeps across them. He settles the blade against Jonah’s leg and, without ceremony, draws it downward in one long, smooth stroke, parting the flesh neatly. Instantly, blood wells to the surface, spilling out and over the pale, freckled skin of Jonah’s thigh. Pain follows, sharp and quick, the cold metal blazing a searing path along his skin. But Jonah doesn’t blink, doesn’t even flinch.

“Jonathan,” he tsks. “You can do better than that.”

“I don’t see what I’m meant to have gotten from this.”

Jonathan’s face is tense, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he clenches it. Despite this, his eyes are fixed on the cut, watching intently as the blood collects into drops that roll over the side of Jonah’s thigh. 

“Clear the blood away,” Jonah says, eyes rapt on Jonathan’s face. “See the mark you’ve left behind.”

His eyes flick up to Jonah’s face and back down again to his leg, skeptical. Taking a handful of the linen sheet, he presses it down onto Jonah’s leg just over where he had cut. Blood blooms across the fabric underneath Jonathan’s fingers, soaking into the fibers and staining them deep red. Jonathan dabs at Jonah’s skin carefully, almost gently, and then draws the linen back to see what’s left underneath.

“There’s… there’s _nothing_.” Jonathan rears back, fingers tightening around the bloody cloth. “There’s nothing at all.”

“You see now?”

“But-but the blood…”

“It’s already healed,” Jonah says, slowly. “I told you that you could do better.”

Jonathan rubs his fingers over Jonah’s thigh, as if searching for where the wound had gone. “How is this possible?”

“Surely the better question to ask is how far this goes?” Jonah reaches out and grabs Jonathan by the wrist, pressing his thumb into the soft divot just below his palm. “Won’t you help me find out?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“You don’t have to, not yet.” Jonah says, voice low and soothing. He rubs his thumb in soft circles over Jonathan’s wrist. “ _Help_ me, Jonathan. Help me find the limits of this ability. We can understand it together.”

Jonathan looks up into Jonah’s face then, eyes wide and nostrils flared, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He looks _terrified_ —Jonah has never seen him in such a state, never seen him so afraid. But there’s something just underneath the surface of that fear—something intrigued, something _exhilarated_. This is what Jonah had been hoping for: that behind the cool, rational mask that Jonathan wears to face the world lies a darker disposition, waiting for the chance to surface. Jonah has long suspected it. But to see the evidence of it so clearly… To call it gratifying would be an understatement.

Without waiting for an answer, Jonah pulls at Jonathan’s wrist, guiding his hand back to press the blade against his leg once again. Jonathan offers no resistance, instead watches with rapt attention as the tip of the scalpel dimples Jonah’s skin for just a moment before it gives, sinking in smoothly until nearly a centimeter of the blade is buried in Jonah’s thigh.

“Now,” Jonah says softly, the barest bit breathless. “Try again.”

The tendons in Jonathan’s wrist move under Jonah’s fingers as he shifts his grip on the scalpel, holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger, bracing it against his middle. There’s a natural grace to this movement—no thought, all instinct. If only the man himself could relax just a bit more, Jonah imagines they could have some good fun yet. He squeezes his fingers once around Jonathan’s wrist and then lets go, leaving Jonathan room to work.

Jonathan inhales once, deep and slow and shuddering, and pulls the scalpel down towards Jonah’s knee in one smooth movement. It slides through Jonah’s flesh easily, bisecting his thigh with one perfect red line that leaves blood gushing in its wake. Jonah bites his lip hard enough to bruise, but it only stifles the sound he makes, something between a sigh and groan.

Jonathan stops immediately and looks over at Jonah with raised brows. “You’re… you’re _enjoying_ this?”

Disbelief is thick in his voice, but there’s something sharp and keen about his eyes that he doesn’t manage to disguise.

“Immensely,” Jonah drawls, smiling up at Jonathan indulgently. He swipes three fingers through the mess on his thigh, spreading the blood around until it coats his leg in a layer thin enough to see the skin beneath. The incision is shallow now, barely more than a scratch, knitting up even as he speaks. “And so are you.”

“Jonah…”

By now, the surprise has dropped from his face, replaced instead by a look of reluctance. He may not want to admit that Jonah’s right, but at the very least he’s stopped trying to deny it. Jonah can work with that.

“Jonathan,” he begins, trailing his fingers, still wet with blood, over the back of Jonathan’s hand and up to his wrist. “You’ve agreed to help me here tonight, so let me do the same for you: I’m asking you to do this. In fact, I’m _trusting_ you to do this. Not another. You.”

Jonathan meets his eyes at that, gaze flicking between them as if searching for untruth, doubting Jonah’s sincerity. Scared, perhaps, that he’ll reveal more of himself than Jonah is fit to handle. It’s rubbish, of course, but if it’s reassurance he needs, then reassurance Jonah will give.

He sits up fully, reaching out to cup Jonathan’s elbow in his free hand. “Anything you’ve ever wanted to do—anything that worried or frightened you just as much as it excited you—do it to me now.” Jonah slides his hand up to Jonathan’s bicep and draws him in closer, making him bend at the waist to keep his balance, now nearly eye-level with Jonah. “Make me hurt, make me bleed, make me scream. Cut into me. Tear me open. Whatever you desire.”

Jonah reaches up to touch Jonathan’s lips, smearing his blood over them and pressing at the seam until Jonathan acquiesces, taking his bloodied fingers into his mouth with a broken moan. When he slides them out from between his lips, Jonathan makes an aborted movement to follow, but Jonah stops him with a gentle hand to his jaw. He keeps his eyes on Jonathan’s mouth, lips red and wet and shining, close enough now that he can feel Jonathan’s breath ghosting over his chin.

“I’m yours.”

Jonathan’s lips tremble against his as he brings their mouths together, and he grasps at Jonah’s waist with his free hand as though Jonah were the only thing keeping him from being swept out to sea. His breathing turns harsh when Jonah slides his hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and deepens the kiss, tasting his blood on Jonathan’s lips. It’s salty and sharp and metallic on his tongue.

Jonah hums his contentment when Jonathan steps in closer, smoothing his hand down over Jonah’s hip to grip his upper thigh. And then, without warning, Jonathan flattens his hand against Jonah’s leg, digging the heel of his palm in to pin it to the desk as he rips the scalpel downward, the blade glancing over Jonah’s knee as Jonathan pulls it free.

Gasping, Jonah arches up into Jonathan as pain shoots up his leg, hands tightening in Jonathan’s shirt and hair as he rides out the sensation. It’s like lightning sparking across his skin, lighting up every nerve ending until he can feel the throbbing sting of it even in his fingertips. He doesn’t get the chance to acclimate to it before Jonathan slides his fingers through the blood on Jonah’s thigh and presses three of them into the wound.

“ _Fuck_.”

Jonah’s head falls back and he blinks furiously against the tears that start to prick at the corners of his eyes. The hair at the top of Jonathan’s head brushes against Jonah’s chin as he looks down at Jonah’s leg.

“How?” Jonathan asks quietly. The hush in his voice now speaks to awe more than disbelief, and he moves the tips of his fingers slightly as if he means to push them in deeper.

“Does it matter?”

There’s a pause then, heavy and long.

“Yes,” Jonathan says slowly. He raises his head to look Jonah in the eye, and his pupils are wide and dark. “And you _will_ tell me when we’re through.”

“But for now?”

“Now…” Jonathan looks down the length of Jonah’s body, down to where his fingers are sunk inside him, gripped tight by the newly healed flesh around them. “Now we find out how far this goes.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Jonah purrs. He leans forward to press a kiss to Jonathan’s jaw but is stopped short by a firm hand to the center of his chest.

“No.”

Jonah looks quizzically up at him, but Jonathan keeps his gazed fixed downward, rapt on Jonah’s thigh.

“If I’m to do this,” Jonathan begins, quiet but commanding Jonah’s complete attention. “Then you must do as I say. And you _must_ —” He grips Jonah by the shoulder, stopping him from jolting forward in shock as he spreads wide the fingers dug into Jonah’s leg, stretching the wound open. “—stay still.”

A fourth finger presses in alongside the other three, squeezing to fit in the narrow space Jonathan has carved out for them. It’s impossibly tight—so much so that Jonah doubts they would have fit at all were it not for the blood slicking the way, flowing freely again from where the edges of the incision has torn open. The pain of it builds as Jonathan’s finger sinks further in, and Jonah throws his head back, hissing in pain, as the throbbing in his leg turns sharp.

“Jonah, look at me.” Jonathan reaches up to grasp Jonah by the chin, thumb and forefinger digging in to the sides of his jaw as he forces Jonah’s head forward to meet his eye. Though his voice is hard and clipped, his face betrays just how eager he is to continue. “Will you do as I say?”

Jonah makes to nod his head in agreement, but Jonathan stops him by tightening his grip on Jonah’s chin.

“Verbally.”

Jonah rolls his eyes but complies. “ _Yes_ , I’ll do as you say.”

“Good.”

Releasing his hold on Jonah’s chin, Jonathan slides his hand down so that his thumb rests in the hollow of Jonah’s throat. Jonah works his jaw back and forth to soothe the ache, grumbling under his breath about Jonathan’s manhandling. If Jonathan hears him, he makes no acknowledgement of it. Simply looks thoughtful as he idly rubs his thumb along the edge of the wound. After a long moment, he seems to come to some decision. He squares his shoulders and presses his hand against Jonah’s chest.

“Lie back,” he says, coaxing Jonah into supine position. “I’m going to remove my fingers now.”

The slow drag of Jonathan’s fingers is _torture_. Jonathan seems to be in no rush to extricate them; in fact, he seems to be positively taking his time in doing so, watching Jonah’s face all the while. Jonah shouldn’t be surprised— _isn’t_ surprised, really. After all, he had long suspected that Jonathan harbored such a secret. That the good doctor, for all that he strove to better and to fix and to heal, took furtive, surreptitious delight in the pain of others.

Still, the confirmation of his theory brings him no material comfort, and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out. When Jonathan crooks his fingers and digs them into the side of the wound, Jonah’s hips jolt and his back arches up off the desk quite against his will.

“I believe I said to stay still.” Jonathan tries to sound stern, but he speaks now with the hasty, tripping syllables of a man barely containing his excitement. His fingers play at the edge of the incision, slipping over Jonah’s skin as it mends. “I can’t have you doing that again.”

Quite suddenly, Jonathan lifts himself onto the desk, moving to sit astride Jonah’s thighs. This new pressure to his still-healing leg wrenches a groan from him, and he fists his hands in the linen sheet at his sides as Jonathan settles his weight fully, pinning him to the desk. Blood smears all up the legs of Jonathan’s trousers, darkening the black fabric of them where it begins to seep in, but he seems to neither notice nor care.

“Jonathan—"

“Arms above your head,” Jonathan cuts him off. He reaches down to pull one of Jonah’s hands free from the sheet, guiding it upward. “Hold on to the edge of the desk—and don’t let go.”

Jonah does as he’s asked, albeit reluctantly. There’s something about the look on Jonathan’s face that frightens him nearly as much as it excites him. But isn’t this what he had wanted? For Jonathan to shake off the shackles of inhibition and propriety and visit such exquisite pain upon him? To help him feel out the scope of these new capabilities—flexing them, testing out their limits?

What he hadn’t bargained for was losing the upper hand. No matter what Jonathan did or what he may believe, Jonah had always meant to remain the one fully in control of the situation. He tries to wrest it back now in one of the best ways he’s learned how.

“Tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

There’s power in the words, Jonah has come to know. A weight that he can lend to them, when he so desires, that makes men liable to bare their very souls, were he simply to ask it of them. Jonah has always been good at spotting lies, from the largest falsehood to the smallest fabrication. But now, he needn’t bother: he can cut right to the heart of the matter, to the inherent, undeniable truth.

When Jonathan responds, it is freely and at once. “I’m going to cut you open, just as you’ve asked.”

Jonathan splays the hand not holding his scalpel over Jonah’s belly, tips of his fingers pressing into the dip just below his ribcage. It becomes immediately apparent why he’s asked Jonah to arrange himself this way: with his arms held above his head, Jonah’s laid open for him, abdomen stretched and tensed and ready. Jonathan’s intent is clear.

“How soon after you made the first incision did you start to imagine this?” Jonah asks him. He keeps his voice low, intimate. Looks up at Jonathan with hooded eyes. “Cutting me open this way?”

Jonathan starts to look uneasy, face tightening in discomfort. “Almost immediately,” he answers, and then rears back a bit, almost losing his balance. He blinks hard several times, as though what he’s said shocked him—or at least that he’s ostensibly readily admitted it.

“And is this the first time you’ve imagined it?”

Jonathan’s throat bobs, and his head moves in minute, twitching shakes. Trying to fight the urge he undoubtedly feels to answer Jonah’s question honestly, then, which won’t do at all.

“Jonathan,” Jonah tsks. “This will be much more pleasant for you if you stop trying to fight it.” He watches as a bead of sweat rolls down Jonathan’s temple. Despite it all, Jonathan remains where he is, hand pressed to Jonah’s ribs. If confronting the truth is a deterrent, clearly it isn’t strong enough to put him off. “Have you imagined doing this to me before?”

“Yes.”

He sounds almost relieved to admit it. There’s a subtle change in his posture, a lifting of the tension he held at his shoulders and brow. It’s apparently all he needs to bring the scalpel once again to Jonah’s skin.

The blade bites into Jonah’s flesh, inscribing a cold, stinging line high on his abdomen, just beneath his sternum. It’s short but deep, carving through skin and muscle and fat in a gush of blood that runs down Jonah’s belly, collecting in his navel and rolling over his sides. With a soft, wounded noise, Jonathan slips his fore and middle fingers into the incision, sinking them down to the last knuckle.

Whatever it is that Jonathan touches inside Jonah, whatever slick, secret bit of him that has never before been seen or felt, it doesn’t hurt. Jonah had been sure that this, out of anything, would cause him the most pain, this indelicate probing of his insides. But the truth of it is much more peculiar than anything he could have imagined. Though Jonah does feel pain—prickling across the skin stretched taut and aching around Jonathan’s fingers, throbbing deeper in the muscles past which Jonathan has pushed—it’s almost dull in comparison to the singular, overwhelming pressure that fills his chest at the press of Jonathan’s fingers inside him.

Jonathan is motionless atop him, eyes wide and transfixed on where his fingers disappear into Jonah’s abdomen. He looks almost shocked, as though he can’t believe what it is that he’s done. It’s quite a charming look on him, Jonah thinks: the naked realization of what he’s capable of, and how much he finds himself enjoying it.

Jonah tips his head forward until Jonathan looks up to meet his eye.

“How does it feel,” he asks lowly, “to finally fuck me like this?”

Jonathan squeezes his eyes shut with a strangled moan, dropping his chin against his chest as his hand trembles against Jonah’s abdomen.

“Good,” he bites out. His hips start to move seemingly of their own volition, twitching against Jonah’s thighs as he chases the friction. “ _Good_.”

“Go on, Doctor,” Jonah says, pausing to wet his bottom lip with his tongue. “Fuck me properly. I can take it.”

Jerking forward, Jonathan plants his free hand beside Jonah and balances his weight on one arm, bending over Jonah to press his forehead to his shoulder. His breath is hot on Jonah’s skin where he pants against him, and he draws his fingers out from the incision slowly, as if reluctant for them to leave the heat of Jonah’s body at all. Jonah urges him on with noises of his own, contented hums and breathy moans as Jonathan’s knuckles brush against the edge of the wound.

Jonathan pauses for a moment, just the tips of his fingers still inside Jonah, holding him open. Blood rushes in Jonah’s ears as his heart beat kicks up, anticipation building as Jonathan keeps himself still. And then with a grunt, he shoves back inside, jolting Jonah upward with such force that the back of his head knocks against the top of the desk.

“ _Jonah_.”

Jonathan’s voice breaks on his name, and he presses his mouth to Jonah’s collarbone, muffling the words that fall from his mouth against his skin. Jonah arches into the contact as much as he can, back bowed at the shoulders to push himself up and take more of Jonathan inside him. He’s rewarded with a third finger easing in alongside the first two, and then a fourth, stretching him wide and pulling at the edges of the incision until they split and fresh blood trickles down over his ribs.

Heat pools low in Jonah’s belly, and though Jonathan grinds more and more desperately against him, mindlessly chasing his own pleasure, Jonah’s cock throbs between his legs, neglected. He whines, trying to buck his hips against Jonathan, or press his thighs together, anything—but with Jonathan sat astride him and bent over him, fucking into him, he can do nothing to ease the ache.

“More,” Jonah demands, pushing up into Jonathan’s hand. “Do it.”

With a shuddering breath, Jonathan straightens up a bit and tucks his thumb against his palm and bears down, forcing his fist through the slit of the incision until it feels like it must be gaping around it. Jonah’s breath comes fast and shallow as the pressure builds, radiating through his torso, and he begins to feel lightheaded, dizzy with the dearth of oxygen and the pounding of his heart and the staggering, consuming _want_.

Just when Jonah thinks he can’t possibly take the stretch anymore, the widest part of Jonathan’s hand slips through, and it slides in all the way to Jonathan’s wrist. Jonah convulses around it, his body instinctually clenching around the intrusion, caught between forcing it out and pulling it in deeper. When he catches his breath and looks down, his abdomen is distended around Jonathan’s hand, the vague shape of his fist pressed up into the straining skin just under his ribcage.

“Look,” Jonah murmurs, hushed and awed. But when he raises his gaze, he sees that Jonathan already is looking, eyes wide and unblinking as he stares down at Jonah’s abdomen as though he can’t quite believe what it is he’s seeing. His mouth has fallen open, lips bitten red from trying to hold in his groans. And his hips haven’t stopped moving once since he began fucking Jonah, grinding down against Jonah’s thighs in quick, jerky movements that speak to his desperation.

More than anything else, Jonah wants to know what Jonathan sees—from his own perspective. What he feels, what he’s thinking. To have a bit of Jonathan’s mind for his own, to keep as a memento of this evening… or to use against him in the future as he sees fit.

So, he _tries_ to know. Lets his eyes fall shut and sees whether the god that’s turned its sights on him will grant him this new boon.

As he feels Jonathan’s hand move within him, stretching up to brush against something inside him that steals his breath and sparks pain down his left arm and into his jaw, so too can he feel _himself_ —as if it were his own hand buried to the wrist inside his body, fingers pressed to slick, hot muscle that contracts underneath them. Feels it, too, when Jonathan’s hips stutter out of rhythm, when his cock twitches and his cunt flutters as he gasps through his orgasm, Jonah’s heart thudding against his fingertips through a thin slip of sinew.

For a moment, it’s quiet but for the harsh breaths that Jonathan pants against Jonah’s shoulder; still, save the minute shudders that wrack Jonathan’s body as he comes back down. Jonah’s awareness slips from Jonathan’s mind, and his head is left pounding in the wake of it, his single set of senses rushing to fill the void where once there were two.

And then, without warning, Jonathan jerks backward, pulling his hand from Jonah’s chest with a sick squelch and a rush of blood. In his haste to put distance between them, he nearly stumbles off of the desk, only just managing to catch himself before he falls backward onto his rear. Jonah hisses as the pain from Jonathan wrenching his hand free catches up to him, and he shoots Jonathan a scowl.

“ _Really_ , Jonathan?” He lets go of the edge of the desk and brings a hand up to rub gingerly at the skin just below the incision. “Have some care.”

Jonathan doesn’t seem to hear him. Merely stares down at his hand, red with Jonah’s blood halfway up his forearm, the edge of his cuffed sleeve stained where drops of it had run to his elbow. His mouth opens and closes, but he doesn’t manage to get any words out until he lifts gaze and fixes Jonah with an accusatory glare.

“ _What did you make me do?_ ”

Jonah laughs, and though it’s a bit wheezy and thin, the derision in it is clear.

“What _I_ made you do? Please.” He props himself up onto his elbows, wincing only a little at the residual soreness he feels. The incision is very nearly healed by now, and only the slightest bit of blood dribbles out of the wound as he moves. “I didn’t _make_ you do anything—though I must admit, I’m flattered that you believe I hold such power over you.”

“Stop it.” Jonathan drops his hands and clenches them into fists at his sides. “This is perverse, Jonah. I’m a _doctor_ , I wouldn’t—"

“Don’t lie, Jonathan. You _enjoyed_ it.” Jonah glances meaningfully down at Jonathan’s groin. “So much so, in fact, that you took _pleasure_ from it.”

Jonathan’s face blanches at that, and he takes a shaking step back and away from the desk.

“No,” he says weakly, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t—I _didn’t_ —"

“You did to me exactly what you wanted to,” Jonah says with relish, smiling up at Jonathan slow and catlike. “And you’ve wanted to do it for quite some time now.”

Jonathan watches him with naked fear in his eyes, glancing between Jonah’s face and the wound on his chest, now no more than an angry red scratch.

“All that I’m guilty of,” Jonah continues, leaning forward and looking up into Jonathan’s face, “is being the perfect person on which to enact these… _darker_ desires. And why shouldn’t you have? I certainly didn’t mind.”

Jonah pauses then, watching Jonathan closely. Though he stands stock-still, his face is a riot of emotions, shifting from horror to indignance to consideration to fear. His eyes flit now to the door and back, as though he wants nothing more than to run and nothing less than to look away from Jonah for more than the barest moment. A man paralyzed, unwilling to go and unwilling to stay.

As delicious as his crisis is, however, Jonah has needs of his own that need to be met. He brings a hand to his chest, thumbing over the raised ridge of skin where the incision once was before sliding it down through the blood coating his belly.

“Now,” he says, letting his legs splay just a bit wider so that Jonathan can see as he runs his fingers along either side of his cock. “Are you going to lend me a hand, Doctor? You shouldn’t be the only one who gets to finish this evening.”

That seems to be the final straw for Jonathan. With an agility that would be surprising if it weren’t so amusing, he strides to the doorway, takes up his coat and bag, and all but runs down the hall. The front door slams behind him only a few moments later.

Jonah laughs and lies back, settling down on top of the desk and getting as comfortable as he’s able. With a sigh, he slides his fingers down to dip briefly inside his cunt, obscenely wet now after Jonathan’s ministrations. He drags his slick back up to his cock and begins to work himself in tight, quick circles.

It doesn’t take long to bring himself to the edge, gasping and shuddering on top of the desk. Just before he falls over, he reaches up with his free hand to press down hard against his abdomen just over where Jonathan’s fist had been inside him. The area is still tender and sore, and his digs his fingers into his skin to heighten the sensation, to be able to really _feel_ it. The pain of it shoots down between his legs, as if the last vestiges of the wound are connected directly to his cock, and he comes with a strangled shout, hips bucking up off the desk.

It takes a long moment for Jonah to reorient himself, blinking rapidly up at the ceiling to clear away the stars that pop in his vision. He huffs out a breath, something between a moan and a laugh, and lets the tension bleed from his body as he relaxes back against the desk. When he lets his hand fall to his side, it nudges against something cold and hard. Curling his fingers around it, he lifts it up above his face to see what it is that’s been left behind.

Jonathan’s scalpel.

It glints dully in the candlelight, the blade painted rust red with now-dried blood. Come to think of it, Jonathan must have forgotten his entire kit here in his haste to leave. Jonah will have to investigate later. For now, he twirls the bloodied scalpel idly between his fingers and wonders when the doctor will call upon him next—and how soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the Jonah server. Love you all <3
> 
> Find me on twitter [@funkylilspiral](https://twitter.com/funkylilspiral) \- please feel free to say hello!


End file.
